


the chains we wear

by summerofspock



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anonymous Sex, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, M/M, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Sort Of, crowleys neck chain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:01:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28114308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock
Summary: It’s hardly a surprise when a man comes up behind him and Crowley feels his heat before he even touches him. But a hand follows, low on his back before skirting over his hip, almost possessive. He considers pushing him away, but before he can, the man speaks.The voice is a surprise.**For the prompt "Crowley's neck chain"
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 58
Kudos: 584





	the chains we wear

_2001_

The club is thrumming with the movement of bodies and the latest baseline. Some irritating remix of a tune Crowley would rather not pay attention to. Crowley slides through the crowd like the serpent he is. It's midnight. Soho. A certain sort of clientele fills the dancefloor as the lights flash but that's not what Crowley’s here for. 

Hell likes when he can send back reports of evenings spent in _dens of lust_. He doesn't know what else he would call this. Men press tight against each other in the dark, hips to hips, hands slipping into low cut jeans, mouths on mouths. A damp heat fills the room, tinged with cologne, the scent of alcohol and sweat. A twenty-first century orgy really. Crowley doesn't have to lift a finger. He could if he wanted. 

Maybe later.

He goes to the bar and orders a drink. Manhattan, extra cherries. He likes a bit of sweetness on the tongue. It feels flirtatious to roll the first one in his mouth as he turns to face the revelry, leaning back on his elbows to watch.

He can feel eyes on him. Not uncommon. He knows what he looks like. He dressed for this. Tight trousers, tight shirt, his long-line Dior coat just to make sure people know what they are dealing with.

Boredom seeps in around one AM and Crowley finds himself in a dark corner nursing his second Manhattan watching as the crowd on the dancefloor grows even more sex-fueled. Drunk humans really will do anything to find a partner.

It’s hardly a surprise when a man comes up behind him and Crowley feels his heat before he even touches him. But a hand follows, low on his back before skirting over his hip, almost possessive. He considers pushing him away, but before he can, the man speaks.

The voice is a surprise.

"Aren't you a gorgeous thing?"

It takes every ounce of control in Crowley’s body not to lean back into the touch. He sips his drink and says nothing, eyes trained on the dancefloor. The hand slips up under his jacket and it is hot through the thin fabric of his shirt. The man draws closer behind him. Crowley faces forward. He can't look back. He won't. He feels the gentle press of the man's stomach into his spine, the outline of a chain, a pocket watch. He inhales sharply.

Fingers dip under the hem of his shirt. 

"It was an awfully boring evening until you showed up." 

The words tickle the hair that curves along Crowley's jaw, raising goosebumps all down his back and chest. The man has both hands on him now. One on back, one under his shirt toying with the trail of hair on the flat of his stomach. Crowley tries not to breathe. He will never stop thinking of the impossibility of this. The first time thirty years ago, the shock of the first touch of a warm hand on his back, the whisper of a familiar (beloved) voice in his ear, an agreement not to speak of it. A new sort of arrangement.

The hand on his back creeps up, sinking into the hair at the nape of his neck, finding the chain Crowley wears, wrapping it around his knuckles and dragging it up until it cups Crowley’s throat like a collar. Isn’t that fitting?

His head tips back, hitting the man’s shoulder and he stops breathing. The drink in his hand falls to the floor and by some miracle doesn’t shatter. He tries not to think. To let it happen. The hand on his belly slides to the button of his trousers and opens it. Crowley is already unraveling and he hasn’t been touched. Not really. It’s been years. Nearly two decades since they’ve done this and he doesn’t know why it’s happening tonight. It is always so much, this hunger inside him, this clawing thing he can’t shake. What’s twenty years, thirty years in the face of the millennia that came before when they never touched? When Crowley thought they never would?

The cool metal of a pinky ring drags over his hip bone as the man unzips his trousers, fingers ghosting over his erection.

“Angel,” Crowley gasps.

The man behind him whispers, “Hush,” and tightens his hand on the chain, tugging him closer. Crowley can feel the shape of him pressed against his arse. His hips rock ever so slightly and Crowley pushes into him, biting back a moan.

The hand on his fly slides into his trousers, hot, perfect, blunt fingers touching Crowley, and every nerve in Crowley’s body cries out for more in unison but his words are cut off, the chain on his throat a harsh reminder he shouldn’t speak. This is silence, darkness. Anonymity. 

The man is rubbing off on him now, little moans in his ear, the hitching of his hips. Crowley swallows. It hurts with the way the chain digs into his throat. The hand on his cock moves slowly, almost lovingly and tears gather in the corner of his eyes. It’s good to be touched. It reminds him he’s not alone in the way he feels.

“Close your eyes,” the man demands. It is a soft demand, a familiar one. Crowley obeys and with a tug of the chain, Crowley’s head is tipped further back so that the man can kiss him. And, fuck, what a kiss it is. Deep and unyielding as the chain holds Crowley in place. 

The hand around his prick tightens and begins to move faster. Heat builds in Crowley’s gut, tight and almost painful. He knows that in another time and place this sensation could be filled with wonder and joy instead of this curling, poisonous shame (he won’t think about it), but the scent filling his nose is that of cocoa and clean paper and it’s the smell of longing and late nights and he knows exactly who is kissing him even if he isn’t supposed to think about it and it’s that knowledge that sends him tumbling head first over the edge, moan swallowed down in an illicit kiss.

The man ( _Aziraphale, Aziraphale,_ his treacherous heart beats) rips his mouth away, pulling his hand off his prick to grasp Crowley’s hips. His own come smears on his skin as the man holds him in place and finds his own release in rubbing against the small of Crowley’s back. He bites down on Crowley’s shoulder and groans as he comes and Crowley so badly wants to turn around and kiss him. Magick them somewhere, some bed where they can kiss and hold each other. They’ve done this three times and never once has Aziraphale let Crowley see his face. Crowley has never touched Aziraphale’s body. Never made love to him the way he has long fantasized about. Somehow Aziraphale finds him in these places. Holds him still by the chain he always wears. and then leaves.

He pulls away and leaves now too. Crowley is left to sag against the wall, a mess in his trousers, and the imprint of a chain around his throat.

* * *

_2021_

Crowley hauls in the last box of books into the cottage and lets out a performative groan. 

“I thought you said you wanted to keep the bookshop along with the cottage,” he says. “I don’t see why you need _eight_ boxes of books here as well as a whole bookshop.”

Aziraphale is nowhere to be seen and Crowley harrumphs. He doesn’t like to complain without an audience. What’s the point really if Aziraphale isn’t there to subject him to long-suffering sighs? He goes into the kitchen but Aziraphale isn’t there, nor is he in the back garden. 

Crowley finds him in the bedroom, seated on the bed, looking gobsmacked and holding something in his hand.

Crowley frowns and drifts closer. He takes a seat beside him only for Aziraphale to unfurl his hand. He’s holding a chain, a necklace Crowley recognizes immediately. 

“Do you remember—”

“Yeah, I remember,” Crowley says. There’s a bittersweet bite to the words. They don’t often talk about everything they did before Armageddon, before they could really be together.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says quietly, staring at the chain in his hand.

“Could’ve put a stop to it if I wanted to,” Crowley points out and he takes the chain back. He stopped wearing it after Armageddon, not particularly fancying the symbolism any longer.

Aziraphale hums to himself and looks out the window. 

“Is it bad if I thought it was rather sexy?” Aziraphale asks after a minute, face turning red.

“What? The chain?” 

“No,” Aziraphale says, offended. “That chain makes you look like a pervert. I mean the— the sex. The way we...the way we used to go about things.”

Crowley raises his eyebrows. He likes the way they make love now even if it makes him soft and sappy. He likes that they can snog for hours on the couch and he gets to unwrap Aziraphale like a present. He likes _taking care_ of Aziraphale. 

But he thinks back to what he didn’t like about the old way of things and it was simply that he couldn’t have any of that. He had hated that he couldn’t take Aziraphale home and sleep beside him. Couldn’t hold him. Couldn’t kiss and touch and gasp his name.

He carefully tips Aziraphale’s chin so he can brush a kiss over his mouth. Aziraphale sighs into it. One of Crowley’s favorite things. He has so many favorite things about his angel. 

“I think we could work something out,” he says and Aziraphale smiles against his mouth.

“Really?”

“Do you want me to wear the chain?”

Aziraphale huffs a laugh, a little wry, a little mocking. Beloved bastard.

“Perhaps just this once. For old times’ sake."


End file.
